Tuesday, August 13, 2013

THE KING OF THREADNEEDLE STREET By Moriah Densley Giveaway

He owns three shipping
companies, a diamond mine, and his own castle.
He knows Portuguese, Hindu, Mandarin and Morse code.
His assets net thirteen million.

Lord Preston wants the one
thing money can’t buy…

Andrew Tilmore, Lord Preston, the financial prodigy dubbed “The King of
Threadneedle Street” wants the one prize out of reach: his childhood
sweetheart. The papers can waste a sea of ink scandalizing over his
lavender-eyed Alysia; so what if she is the daughter of his father’s mistress?

Alysia Villier learned the craft of the courtesan from her infamous mother―by
osmosis apparently. A gifted artist who almost won the Prix de Rome, Alysia is
not interested in following in her mother’s footsteps, since Andrew ruined her
for any other man. But with her legal guardian—Andrew’s father―in control of
her inheritance, she has little choice in the matter.

Keeping Alysia out of trouble and away from eager suitors becomes a
cross-continental quest for Andrew. Not his old-fashioned family, the
disapproval of the ton, nor even Alysia’s dedication to duty and propriety will
stop him. Playing newspapers and investors like pawns, tumbling world markets,
inciting riots… has he gone too far?

EXCERPT: Ballroom scene

After being
threatened with ruin by Andrew Tilmore Lord Preston’s parents, Alysia Villier
runs away to Paris. With the help of people she thinks are her friends, she
makes a living as a painter and an artist’s model. The same night she learns
she’s in danger, her knight in shining armor comes to the rescue…

Perhaps the people around her were speaking; she
couldn’t say, for she was momentarily stunned and not sure why. Then she
heard the voice again. A British, bass voice. “Excuse me, pardon.”

Was it her imagination? She shook her head.

Evigny and Ramsgate were pushed aside, and there
stood Andrew, a head taller than the others and gloriously angry. Her heart
stalled then kicked. She couldn’t breathe.

He gave her a low, formal bow. Pressed a slow
kiss on the back of her gloved hand before turning it to press the palm to
his face. Closed his eyes and inhaled deeply at her wrist. Grazed his nose
along the inside of her forearm, as though hundreds of eyes were not
observing.

One of the men nearby, probably Ramsgate,
scoffed, “And without an introduction! Such presumption! Come
now, who is—”

“We have met,” Andrew took her glass, and for the
second time that evening, Leduc found himself holding it while another man
cut in.

“Andrew.” Her voice caught, and her throat felt
swollen. A dozen gasps sounded around her, seeming to echo.

She became aware of a chorus of lowered voices.
“That is Lord Preston!” or jealously, “How does he know Miss Villier?” said as though her name meant horse manure.

“Lord Preston, The King of Threadneedle Street.”

“Lord Preston, youngest peer to sit in the House
of Lords.”

All hailLord
Preston, the demi-god. Who should not be here.

She was suddenly conscious of how she must look
to him, no longer the plump, modest country maiden to whom he had bid
farewell over a year before. After a year of Madame Desmarais’ strict diet of
vegetable juices, sprouts, and deprivation of sweets, Alysia was a noticeable
one or two stone lighter. She thought she was an inch taller, as well.

But that wasn’t mortifying. Alysia resisted the
urge to cover herself with her fan. She didn’t want him to see the pleated
silver bodice in translucent gossamer, wasp-waist corset and low Parisian décolleté. Wisps of gossamer—a poor
excuse for sleeves—sat low on her arms, exposing her shoulders and half her
back. The cosmetics, the exotic perfume, her hair coiffed in semi-dishabille topped with jeweled
combs…

She must truly look a harlot to him. Did he think
so? He was certainly staring.

Ignoring the protests of her so-called admirers,
he led her to the dance floor just in time for the next waltz, oblivious to
her wooden movements. He pulled their dance position completely closed.
Pressed against him from shoulder to knee — oh, the shock! His thighs rubbed
hers, leading the steps as he had over a year before at his sister’s wedding.
It seemed ages ago.

Constrained in the corset, she couldn’t draw a
clear breath. If the dizziness grew worse, she would faint in his arms. At
least his shoulder blocked her view of the room. Alysia had no desire to
survey all the curious and accusing glares she knew were aimed at her.

Oh, why did Andrew have to appear this evening?
She felt like an opium addict locked in a closet saturated with the scent,
smoke, and juice. Tentatively his fingers moved over the exposed skin of her
back, across her shoulders, blazing a sensation strangely like fire and ice
together. His head turned a little and rested against hers. He hummed softly
in her ear as though it was perfectly ordinary that they should be waltzing
at a ball in Paris on a random autumn evening.

Moriah
Densley sees nothing odd at all about keeping both a violin case and a range
bag stuffed with pistols in the back seat of her car. They hold up the stack of
books in the middle, of course. She enjoys writing about
Victorians, assassins, and geeks. Her muses are summoned by the smell of
chocolate, usually at odd hours of the night. By day her alter ego is your
friendly neighborhood music teacher. She lives in Las Vegas with her husband
and four children. Published in historical and paranormal romance, Moriah
has a Master’s degree in music, is a 2012 RWA Golden Heart finalist, 2012
National Reader’s Choice Award “Best First Book” finalist, and 2012 National
Reader’s Choice Award finalist in historical romance. She loves hearing from
readers!